Who shall show me why I love, with this deep and thirsty intensity,
the array of gold and silver light, these mist-hung fields with
their soft tints, the glow that flies and fades, the cold veils of
frosty vapour? Thousands of men and women have seen the sunset
pass, loving it even as I love it. They have gone into the silence
as I too shall go, and no hint comes back as to whether they
understand and are satisfied.
And now I turn in at the well-known gate, and see the dark gables
of my house, with the high elms of the grove outlined against the
pale sky. The cheerful windows sparkle with warmth and light,
welcoming me, fresh from the chilly air, out of the homeless
fields. With such array of cheerful usages I beguile my wondering
heart, and chase away the wild insistent thoughts, the deep
yearnings that thrill me. Thus am I bidden to desire and to be
unsatisfied, to rest and marvel not, to stay, on this unsubstantial
show of peace and security, the aching and wondering will.
December 4, 1888.
Writing, like music, ought to have two dimensions--a horizontal
movement of melody, a perpendicular depth of tone. A person
unskilled in music can only recognise a single horizontal movement,
an air.
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